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Mack pulled through the Popeye’s drive-through, picked up an order of hot wings, and finished them off on his drive to Nonny’s place. Driving down the dark tunnel of trees to her house, he drowned a greasy-gut feeling with the last of a diluted Pepsi, its ice melted by the Bronco’s heater. He hailed the house as he saw her appear at the kitchen door.
“What are you doing here, Mack?” Nonny walked onto the porch, arms crossed.
Sensing her coldness, Mack stopped at the steps. “Thought I’d check to see if you thought of anyone to buy the other half of that duplex. Don’t know if you heard or not, but I got a buyer for the home place.”
“Uncle George mentioned it. He went in for a haircut today and Sister told him.”
“I, uh, I interrupt something?” With the light to her back, Nonny’s face blended into the shadows. Mack glanced beyond her to see if she was in the midst of making jelly or some other do-good project. A Mason jar sitting on the kitchen table glowed like a giant gold nugget.
“What the hell—” He pushed past Nonny and walked to the table, where he took the jar in his hands. He stared at the golden brew and then into eyes the same color. ”You’re not thinking on opening this . . .”
“You’re intruding.”
“You are, aren’t you?” He pinned Nonny’s eyes with his own.
“No, I’m not . . .” There was a pause in her eyes. “Well, yes, I’m thinking about it. It’s been sitting on that table for two days and I haven’t opened it yet, so I’m thinking long and hard about it.”
“Why? Something to do with this business I got you involved in?”
Nonny rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know, maybe in a way.”
Mack walked to the sink, making movements to open the jar.
Nonny grabbed his arm. “Don’t do that—I’ll puke.”
“What?”
“The smell makes me puke. I think that’s the reason I haven’t opened it yet. Because I know I’ll puke.”
“And after you get through puking?”
She paused again. “I haven’t gotten to that yet.”
He tightened the lid down on the jar. “What set you off? It have something to do with me or the stuff I had you look up for me?” When she didn’t answer promptly, he pushed harder. “Spill it, Nonny, I’ve got a right to know.”
“Maybe indirectly.”
“Where’s the coffee?” Mack picked the coffee pot up off the stove, pulled out the basket, and filled the pot with water. Giving her a look, he said, “Put some coffee in the basket, Nonny. I don’t know where you keep it.” As she opened a cupboard door and spooned coffee into the basket, Mack noticed the tremble in her hands.
“Indirectly?” he said. “What’s that mean? I got no time to do this deconstruction stuff, so talk. Given your reaction to Grace’s tombstone, I figure it has something to do with that. What? The stone? The inscription? The woman? Mama and Sister call her a hussy. You done something you’re not proud of? You sleep around out there in Norman—”
“Shut up, Mack.”
“Hell,” he said, “you’re a good-looking woman, only normal. Unless . . .”
Mack recalled Chester saying something about women students filing a complaint and began to question the man’s assessment of Nonny’s sexual preferences, wondering if the man had been wrong.
“Aw, shit,” he mumbled.
Nonny glanced at him. “What?”
“None of my business.”
“No, it’s not. But you think you got something figured out, I have a right to know what it is. You started all this palaver.”
Mack walked to the cane-bottomed chair across the room, took a seat, and tilted it against the wall. “I just never took you for a . . .”
“A what?”
He took a deep breath. “That fella Chester. He, uh, he said some of your girl students filed a complaint.”
Nonny paused momentarily, taking time to translate the innuendo, then laughed. “What is it with you Barlows? All of you think I’m a lesbian. First your mother, and now—”
“Mama thinks you’re a lesbian? Why?”
“Because I never married! Sister figures it’s because I got spoilt like she did. Which is why she never married, in case you didn’t know.”
Mack raised his eyebrows. “I always wondered about that.”
“For your information, I have lots of friends that are homosexual and they’re good people.”
“But you’re not? Homosexual, I mean.”
“For pity sake, what do I have to do with you Barlows? Sign in blood?”
“Then what? What’s the connection to Grace?” Mack paused as he saw uncharacteristic tears fill Nonny’s eyes.
“She gave up her children, dammit, just like I did. That’s what Ruby can’t forget—or forgive.” Nonny wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. “I’d like to think my daughter would forgive me for giving her up for adoption, but she might not. I mean, after all these years, Ruby still can’t forgive Grace.” She hesitated. “Then, when I learned I couldn’t have any more children . . .” A harsh sound came from deep in her throat. “Mom and Dad always hoped for grandchildren and I’d thrown away the only chance they’d ever have like . . . like a piece of garbage in a trash dumpster.”
Mack jumped to his feet and reached for Nonny. He felt her face pressing against his shoulder, heard himself saying things to try to make her feel better, then stumbled backward from the force of the stiff-arm blow she dealt him.
“Stop hovering, Mack! You know how I feel about that.”
Mack stood with one hip cocked. “Yeah, I remember. Always Miss Independent, needing to stand on her own, didn’t want help from nobody.”
“That’s right,” she said, wiping her nose again. “Aw crap, coffee’s ready.” Walking to the cabinet, she took down two mugs and joined Mack at the table. She grimaced, watching him pick at a blister on his palm. “What the hell you do to your hand?”
“Started working on that duplex today. My hammering hand’s got soft.”
“Well, don’t pick at those blisters. You could get an infection. I’ll get some hydrogen peroxide and band-aids. You got any bag balm? Wouldn’t hurt to work some into those hands.”
“Yeah, I keep some in my truck, but that’s not what I need right now. You got any alum?”
“Alum?” Nonny paused. “For making pickles?”
“Toughens up the skin. You got some, I’ll make a soak.”
Nonny rummaged until she found what she was looking for, then took a glass bowl out of the cupboard and filled it with water. Mack poured in alum until the water turned milky, then dunked his right hand into it.
Nonny grimaced. “Doesn’t that burn?”
“Like hellfire and brimstone.” Mack picked up his mug of coffee with his left hand, swished his right hand in the milky concoction, and resumed hammering on Nonny. “So, you started drinking because of your daughter, because she wouldn’t forgive you?”
“Not exactly,” she said, sounding irritable. “It’s a long story.”
“I got nothin’ but time.”
*****
Two pots of coffee later, Mack had pieced together the story of Nonny’s life, at least since she had left town a blooming optimist and returned a recovering alcoholic. A lot of experimentation as a footloose freshman. An all-night kegger, lots of drinking and sex. A few weeks later, the realization she was pregnant. Some months after that, a baby put out for adoption.
“How’d you know it was a girl? Thought that kind of thing was kept from the mother?”
“Talkative nurses who didn’t know I could hear them.”
“What’d they say?” He watched Nonny turn away, stare into space.
“They, uh, they were talking about her eyes, how unusual they were. Making bets they’d end up the same color as mine.”
Mack’s mind went into overdrive. “So you started looking for her. When? Right away?”
“No, not until years later. One day at school, a girl passed me whose eyes were similar to mine, a student, and it occurred to me that my daughter would be about her age.” She let out a long sigh. “After that, things just snowballed.”
“You try the legal route to find out who adopted her?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I hear they’re pretty tough about releasing that information to the birth mothers. You know, later.”
“They are.”
“So then . . .?”
Nonny blew out her breath. “So then, I became obsessed with finding her. Obsessions can make a person do dumb-ass things. I started looking for girls at the school who’d be about the right age, one whose eyes were colored like mine, hoping she’d been put into a decent home and sent to college.” She pushed her hair from her face and tucked stray ends into the rubber band holding what was left of a ponytail. “Alcohol took the edge off.”
Mack sat quiet for a spell, then said, “You never could hold your liquor.”
“What?”
“Remember that high-school dance when in the tenth grade? Liquor makes you turn loose.”
Nonny flushed slightly. “It was the eleventh grade.”
Mack grinned and wiped his hand dry. The blistered skin had bleached out white and his hand had shriveled up like a dead carp washed onto a riverbank. He heard Nonny sniff and looked her way. “What’s your thinking?”
“I’m thinking that looks awful.” She pointed to his hand, then looked him in the face. “And I was wondering what you’re thinking about all this? You know, the mess I’ve made of things.”
Mack dabbed some more at the blistered skin. “I’m thinking I should’ve knocked you up in the eleventh grade.”
“What?”
“We should’ve stayed right here, bought a little place in the country, raised a houseful of kids. That’s what I’m thinking.” He looked away from his hand and into her eyes.
Contemplating this, Nonny shook her head. “No, that would’ve made things worse than it is now. Our kids would’ve ended up not knowing you, because you stuff everything inside, and hating me when I ran off and left them because I felt unfulfilled. Not unlike Pa and Grace.”
Mack grunted, wondering if she might not be right and thinking she was damned good at this deconstruction business. “Ever occur to you that she might be looking for you? Lots of adopted kids try to find their birth mothers.”
She hesitated. “You think?”
“You don’t put yourself out there, she won’t have much luck. It’s not all about you, you know.” Mack got up from his chair, poured the alum water down the kitchen drain, and spoke over his shoulder. “Ever occur to you, she might be dead.”
“It has.” Nonny retrieved Mack’s denim jacket from the doorknob where it hung.
Shouldering his way into the coat, he said, “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of that makes me throw-up, too. You know, when I dwell on them.”
“Do you pee your pants?”
“What?”
“Do you puke so hard, you pee your pants?”
“No.”
“Well then, you should thank Heaven for small blessings, Mack Barlow.”
“Aw, hell,” he muttered as her meaning sunk in. He picked up the Mason jar of homemade brew. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Thanks.” Nonny stuffed her hands deep into her front pockets, looking like a child curling in on itself when it was hurt. “I, uh, I have to back off this one, Mack, for my own sake. Please try to understand. I mean, I’ll come to Pa’s funeral and all, but . . .”
“I do understand, Nonny.” He stepped outside, then turned to look at her. “Still wish we hadn’t used protection back in high school.”
“What?”
“Don’t take a few chances, life gets mighty dull.” The door closed slowly and the light went off, turning the night inky black. He stumbled his way down the steps and made the drive home.
He gave Whitey a rub on the head when he reached the house. The dog followed him to the barrow ditch, watched as he emptied the Mason jar into the grass along its banks, and cocked his ears when Mack lofted the jar into the air. The remaining liquor spilled across a pale-moon sky like drops of liquid gold, and the clink of broken glass, sounding like a tambourine, caused the chorus of croaking and chirping night creatures to cease momentarily.
“Well, that’s that.” As he uttered the words, Mack felt a tightness in his chest that brought back a memory. A remembered pain from when he had suffered cracked ribs. Doctors had taped him back together so tight he could hardly breathe.
Just like now . . .
Sometime later, Whitey nuzzled his hand. Mack turned and followed him to the front door and, without further adieu, closed them both inside the dark house.
